“Caroline,” he said with surprise. He drew back a step as an elderly couple walked past them, dressed for dinner. The man tipped his hat, the woman’s face obscured by an extremely full fur stole so it was unclear if she’d seen anyone at all.
“Yes, that’s it—the song you were just whistling. That’s the name of the song, isn’t it?”
He seemed to think a moment, as if he couldn’t recall that he’d been whistling at all. His eyes registered surprise. “Close,” he said. “It’s ‘Can’t You Hear Me Calling Caroline?’”
“Good evening, Mr. Langford,” Patrick said, stepping into the corridor. “I must see to Mrs. Hochstetter’s dinner. It appears she’s decided to dine in tonight.”
“And miss the salamoas a la crème and the pouding Talma? Oh, the tragedy!” A look of exaggerated outrage crossed Robert’s handsome features. “Please, ma’am. Allow me to escort you to the dining room so that I won’t have to report you to the chef, who would surely weep into his mousse de jambon and ruin it for the other diners.”
Despite herself, Caroline laughed. Taking his arm, she said, “Oh, Robert. What would I do without you?”
“Indeed,” he said softly, escorting her down the corridor toward the lifts. As they departed, she caught a glance between Robert and Patrick that she couldn’t decipher, but quickly forgot about it as Robert sang softly into her ear, “I miss you in the morning . . . Caroline, Caroline . . .”
She tapped him playfully on the arm with her fan. “You must stop, Robert. If somebody hears you, they might think you’re pursuing me.”
“Who says I’m not?”
She was spared from making a response as they entered the crowded lift taking diners down to the Saloon Deck and the main floor of the first-class dining room, nearly colliding with Prunella and Margery Schuyler. Too late to escape to the safety of the stairs, she smiled at the two women, being careful not to impale one of her eyes on the many ostrich feathers protruding from Margery’s coiffure.
“How fortuitous that we run into you, Mrs. Hochstetter,” Margery said down her long nose.
“Really? And why would that be?” Caroline asked.
“Mrs. Schuyler and I will be dining with the esteemed sculptress Ida Smythe-Smithson. We will be discussing art in its many forms, and how we can use art to amplify our minds and talents, no matter how small.” She pressed her lips together as she regarded Caroline. “You must join us, of course. Perhaps it will help you in your quest to rise above your talents and perform at a new level this Thursday coming.”
Only the warm pressure of Robert’s hand on the small of her back prevented Caroline from either stomping on the woman’s foot with her Louis heel or simply pushing her hard enough to make her topple. Instead, she said, “I’m afraid there won’t be room. I’ve invited Robert Langford to join my husband and me for dinner.”
“Perfect,” Prunella said, standing behind her sister-in-law and nodding an ostrich-feather-festooned head in Caroline’s direction. “We have a table for six reserved already so you all must join us.” She closed her mouth, her edict having been issued and the jut of her jaw making it clear that there would be no disagreement.
“I’m not a little surprised that your husband has plans to join you, Mrs. Hochstetter, knowing how very busy he is.” Margery sniffed slightly before dabbing her mouth sore with her handkerchief.
A voice from beside Caroline spared her from responding. “I would be delighted to join you,” Robert interjected with a charming smile that fooled everyone but Caroline. She loved that she could read him like that. Loved that connection between them. It had always been there, ever since their first auspicious meeting.
“You look exceptionally beautiful tonight, Caroline,” he whispered in her ear, his warm breath tingling the skin on her bare neck and back. “That dress. It does something to a man that might be called . . . indecent.”
She kept her gaze forward so she could pretend she hadn’t heard a word, but she was glad for the general noise of the crowd around her to drown out the sound of the blood soaring from her heart and racing through her body.
The lift gates opened and the diners spilled out, the stifling scent of different perfumes that had overwhelmed the small space suddenly dissipating and leaving behind only the lingering aroma of flowers. They moved en masse the short distance to the dining room, their collective voices echoing off the marble floors and then seeming to lower. Even on this third night of dining, it appeared the passengers could still be awestruck by the opulence of the two-story room.
More than one person glanced up. The ceiling of the first-class dining saloon was capped with a stained glass dome that sparkled with all the reflections from the candles and lighting fixtures below. Done in the style of Louis XVI, the gold-capped Corinthian columns and the intricate scrollwork surrounding oval paintings of cherubim adorning the dome were much more to Gilbert’s taste than to her own, but even Caroline couldn’t deny the beauty and elegance of the space. It made one want to sip one’s consommé a little more slowly, to savor each bite of food, and to perhaps take the time to enjoy the conversation with fellow diners. Perhaps. Unless one’s dinner companions were Mrs. and Miss Schuyler. In which case, there was always a never-ending supply of good wine.
“Here we are,” Prunella announced, bustling her way through the crowd like a cannonball at Gettysburg. Feeling as if she were a duckling in Prunella’s feather-festooned wake, Caroline followed obediently, glad to have Robert beside her. They approached a round table covered in white linen with crowns of starched serviettes protruding from each place setting as at all the other tables, except this one was conspicuously tucked into the farthest reaches of the room, as close to the silk-lined wall as possible. As Caroline accepted the chair Robert held out for her, she couldn’t help but wonder if this seating had been arranged intentionally by the staff, having had two nights’ experience with the dining Schuylers already.
“Hello,” said a very proper English voice from across the table. “I’m Ida. Just Ida, as I do not believe in formalities. And you are?”
Caroline stared in the direction of the voice and saw immediately why she’d missed the woman at first. She was tiny, her shoulders barely reaching the table from her seated position, so that she was nearly hidden by the crystal vases filled with fresh flowers and the multitude of glasses meant for every kind of wine. Her gaze was focused on Caroline, unblinking, as she took a sip from her glass of champagne. At first glance, the woman didn’t look much older than twelve. But when Caroline actually looked into the woman’s face and saw the knowing eyes and lips set in a sensuous smirk, she realized the woman had to be in her thirties. She had flaming-orange hair—not a color Caroline had ever seen in nature—cut into a short bob, and wore not only bright red lipstick, but rouge. On her cheeks. Where everybody could see.
Before responding, Caroline glanced at Prunella, but the older woman didn’t seem to notice that anything might be amiss. Turning back to Ida, she said, “I’m Mrs. Gilbert Hoch—” She stopped short at the look of disdain Ida gave her. “I’m Caroline. And this is my friend Robert.”
“We’ve already met, haven’t we, Robert?” Ida said, her words laced with innuendo.
“Indeed we have,” he agreed, seating himself last. He didn’t offer any explanation as to the circumstances of their meeting, but simply smiled back at Ida. A pang jolted Caroline that felt oddly like jealousy. Which was ridiculous, really. Robert wasn’t hers and he was free to entangle himself with any woman. Except . . .
The woman’s high-pitched voice interrupted her thoughts. “You must be Caroline the woefully lacking accompanist with the preoccupied husband,” Ida said before taking a sip of champagne.
Caroline opened her mouth to defend herself but stopped when Ida winked. “I can’t imagine anything more difficult,” Ida continued, “than to accompany such a superior voice as Miss Schuyler’s. Granted, I haven’t yet heard her sing, but from what she’s told me, she must rival Lucrezia Bori.�
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Margery closed her eyes and lowered her head for a moment in mock modesty, allowing Ida to smile fully at Caroline. Caroline was relaxing back into her seat when she felt a presence behind her and turned to see Gilbert.
His eyes were guarded as he bent toward her ear. “Hello, my dear,” he said quietly before making his apologies for his tardiness and turning to greet the other diners at the table. His face registered momentary surprise when he spotted Robert on Caroline’s other side.
“Mr. Langford,” he said in greeting.
“Mr. Hochstetter,” Robert replied. “I heard you were delayed and took the liberty of escorting your lovely wife to the dining room. I hope you are staying for the dancing afterward. Her gown really must be shown off.”
Gilbert looked down at Caroline’s dress as if seeing it for the first time. “I suppose it’s one of your new ones?”
“Yes, it is. Don’t you like it?” She wanted him to look at her the way Robert had. To see what Robert had seen.
“You look cold. Would you like me to fetch your wrap?”
She met Ida’s assessing stare and felt a frigid smile form on her lips. “No. I’m absolutely fine. I’ll let you know if I change my mind.”
She was acutely aware of the two men by her sides as the meal progressed and they were served course after course that smelled delicious but that Caroline couldn’t taste. It was impossible to keep track of how much wine she drank as another glass would be filled or refilled with each course. She was aware of Robert conversing with the three other women at the table, and she interjected her own comments occasionally so as not to appear uninformed or uninteresting. Gilbert remained mostly silent, studying his food with meticulous attention as he prepared each bite.
“Are you unwell, Caroline?” Gilbert glanced briefly at her mostly untouched plate.
She turned to her husband. “I’m fine. Really. It’s just that we ate lunch at one o’clock, which hardly gives me enough time to build up an appetite for dinner.” She put down her knife and placed her hand on his. “Please say you’ll stay for the dancing. Please, Gilbert. For me.”
He looked down at their hands. “You know I don’t dance. I believe you once told me that I had two left feet.” He smiled gently. “I wish I could—I would be proud for people to know that you were with me. You go ahead and stay and have fun. I might even watch for a little while.”
“I’m sorry if I ever said that. But I’m a good enough dancer for both of us, Gilbert. Really. I won’t allow us to make fools of ourselves.”
He was already shaking his head. “My father was a coal miner who taught me the value of hard work. It wasn’t our way to make spectacles of ourselves, or spend our time doing frivolous things. It’s not my way. But I want you to do what makes you happy.”
“Being with you makes me happy.” She wanted to squeeze his hand, but he was already pulling away, as if afraid somebody might see her show of affection.
“Don’t you agree, Mr. Hochstetter?” Margery was looking at them, a spot of choron sauce from the sea bass clinging to her mouth sore, which seemed to have grown even larger since the day before.
“I beg your pardon?” Gilbert asked.
“Ida was making the point that nude sculptures should be placed in every home so that we see the human body—especially the female form—as a thing of strength and beauty, and not something to be ashamed of.”
Ida was nodding emphatically. “When God made Adam and Eve, they were nude, and perfect in his eyes. Why we choose to hide our bodies under clothing is really mystifying when you think about it.” Her gaze traveled to Caroline. “Your wife, for instance, has the most remarkable figure. I would love to sculpt her in the nude—that bone structure is begging to be immortalized in marble. I wouldn’t charge my usual rate because it would be such an honor, and because I think it would be a point of pride in what I’m sure is already an impressive art collection in your home.”
Spots of color sprouted on Gilbert’s cheeks. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. I believe you have just insulted both my wife and myself. I must ask you to apologize.”
Margery frowned at Gilbert with disapproval. “Really, Mr. Hochstetter,” Margery said, her voice cajoling. “Perhaps if you were an artiste like Ida and myself, then you might understand better what we’re trying to say. Then you might comprehend the superiority of a Goethe or a Wagner, unconstrained by repressive Anglo-Saxon notions of morality . . .” She waved her hand, trying to conjure something from the air. “Or the genius of, perhaps, a Strauss waltz over the mediocre talents of Anglo-American composers.” She paused, her gaze casually settling on Caroline for a moment before turning to Gilbert.
Gilbert slid his chair back. “I don’t need to be an artiste to understand what you’re suggesting and that is nothing short of obscene. To even consider my wife for such a show of vulgarity . . .”
“Mr. Hochstetter,” Robert began. “Gilbert, if you will allow. Ida is a world-renowned sculptress. It is the highest compliment to your wife and to you to be considered as a muse for one of her fine works of art. Your wife is a very beautiful woman, sir. If she were mine, I’d want to show her to the world.”
Speaking across Caroline as if she weren’t there, Gilbert hissed, “But she’s not yours, is she, Mr. Langford?” He stood, jerking the table enough that he knocked over a glass of eleven-year-old French wine, the red startling against the white tablecloth. “I’ve heard enough,” Gilbert said with barely suppressed anger. “My wife and I will be leaving, and I would appreciate you not speaking to her again for the remainder of our time on this ship.”
Caroline stared down at her half-eaten plate of food, blinking rapidly, what she wanted to do and say warring with what she would probably say and do.
“Caroline?” Gilbert said firmly, his hand on the back of her chair.
“Perhaps you should ask your wife if she’s ready to leave,” Ida suggested, not completely hiding her smirk.
Robert stood, too. “Gilbert, please sit down. I’m sure Miss Smythe-Smithson would be amenable to a different topic of conversation, and we all promise to behave civilly.”
As if Robert hadn’t spoken, Gilbert looked down at Caroline, who was still staring at her plate, the blue-and-white floral pattern of the china seeming to spin around the circumference. “Caroline? Are you coming?”
Slowly, she lifted her head and managed to raise her eyes to his, remembering what her mother had taught her about being a woman: Appear to be weak and docile when it suits, but never forget that a soft and gentle outer appearance simply masks a spine of steel.
“No, Gilbert. I’d like to finish eating, and then perhaps dance.”
For a brief moment, she thought her husband might forcibly remove her from the table. Instead, he took two deep breaths, the second louder than the first. “As you wish. Please know that I will be extremely busy until we reach England, and I doubt you will see me until then. Good night.”
He left without another word, walking quickly and almost knocking into a waiter bearing a silver tray of desserts. Heads turned as he walked past them toward the exit and then, one by one, as if on cue, they all turned to look at Caroline.
She felt as if she might be sick. From embarrassment and humiliation. From disappointment. “Excuse me.” She stood quickly, her gloves falling from her lap, but she did not care enough to pick them up. “I’m not feeling very well. It was a pleasure meeting you, Ida.” She nodded to the other ladies. “Good night.”
She could feel Robert standing next to her but couldn’t look at him as she bolted toward the exit adjacent to the one Gilbert had used. Despite her need to leave the room, she would not give anyone the satisfaction of believing that she was running after her husband.
Caroline ducked into the first corridor she came to and pressed her forehead against the nearest door, desperate for something cool to stave off a surge of what felt like fever. She wondered if it could be the wine, or the rich food. Anything, really, other than believing her
husband had just effectively put her in her place in such a public manner, and then dismissed her for the rest of the voyage. As if she were a pet dog who needed scolding, and whose absence wouldn’t be noticed overly much.
“Mrs. Hochstetter. You seem distraught. May I be of some assistance?”
At the sound of the steward’s soft Irish accent behind her, Caroline lifted her head and blinked, the brass label on the door announcing she was at cabin D-61. She was about to accept his offer, having no idea how she was to manage putting one foot in front of the other without assistance, when another voice spoke.
“I’ll take care of her, Patrick,” Robert said, his words soft yet precise, as if he were as agitated as she was.
“Are you quite sure, sir?”
“Quite,” Robert said, the gentle feel of his hand on her elbow doing much to calm her.
“Ma’am?” Patrick asked her, as if making sure this new arrangement was agreeable to her.
“I’ll be fine with Mr. Langford. Thank you, Patrick.”
The man bowed slightly then left, looking back at them once before disappearing around the corner.
Robert slid her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Come on. I’ll take you back to your suite.”
She shook her head, refusing to move. “No. I don’t want to go there.”
“Then let me fetch you a drink. Perhaps the lounge . . .”
“No,” she said, thinking more and more clearly. “I don’t want to go to the lounge.”
“Then I’m afraid . . .” He stopped, his eyes searching hers.
“I want to be with you.”
“But you are with me.”
She didn’t blink. “Alone.”
“Alone?”
She nodded. Either emboldened by Ida’s words or by Gilbert’s secretiveness and rank dismissal, she finally understood what she wanted. Who she wanted. She found herself smiling at her own boldness and Robert’s seeming reticence, and finding the role reversal almost amusing. “You don’t have a bunkmate, do you?”
The Glass Ocean Page 18
